


Heavy

by ADarlingWrites



Series: amaranthine [2]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Psychological Trauma, Repressed Memories, Rescue, Romance, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-04 15:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADarlingWrites/pseuds/ADarlingWrites
Summary: Human memories aren't perfect for a reason. A drell's perfect memory isn't always a blessing.Both are burdens Commander Shepard and Thane Krios must carry.Inspired byHeavy in Your Arms by Florence + The Machine.





	1. Prologue

The bass pounded through bodies as a shadowy figure lurked in the nightclub. Sex and alcohol permeates the stale air, the chorus of the patrons’ voices melding together to a single cacophonous noise. Asari and human dancers flounced about, dangerous curves promising carnality, and yet they are to be untouched. The neon sign bearing the nightclub’s name, The Second Circle, continues to flicker, one letter dead, and another off-color. 

Nothing has been replaced since the nightclub first opened ten years ago, in 2160. It was a dilapidated, worn down, and wicked place; loud, dark and shrouded with sin. Perfect for an assassination. Noise will muffle any screams of pain, darkness will conceal any illicit activity, and it is relatively easy to disguise oneself as a patron who’s simply looking for a good time. It’s perfect.

The dark figure slinks along the shadows, formulating a plan to carry out his deed. The target is a human sergeant for the Blue Suns, middle-aged, with green eyes, sallow skin and a shaved head. His contacts identified him as Simon Novak, and from what he learned, this Novak is a hated man. Aside from being associated with the Blue Suns and the mercenary group’s accompanying reputation, he violated a lot of women and the families of his victims want revenge. Now that the assassin had traced them to Omega, they’re about to get their most awaited revenge. Hitmen shouldn’t care; all they should care about is making sure the hit is a success, but this particular one does.

Novak is sitting at a booth, with four of his underlings with him; two humans, a turian, and a batarian. A minor complication; he can easily take all of them out. He can stalk the group until they’re all swimming in alcohol, then assassinate the target. Or, he can drop down from the vents and snap their necks, though it poses a significant risk. The safest, yet most complicated option is to find a distraction that will lead the target out of the nightclub, or at least lure him to a secluded spot. He can execute him from there.

However, it seems the problem had taken care of itself.

Someone caught the target’s attention; one of the entertainers wasn’t dancing. She is simply standing, her body language communicating discomfort or mortification. Approximately standing at five feet and a few more inches, she looked delicate and small in comparison to the other dancers. Ribs poked out of her chest, a morose expression is plastered to her youthful face, and loneliness haunts her eyes; she is a fish out of water among the lively dancers and entertainers in the club.

Novak’s group hurled catcalls and malicious intentions disguised as words of praise at the young woman, and after being encouraged by a fellow dancer, she sulks over and got on the table, preparing to entertain patrons who had little respect for her. Gods, she doesn’t even know how to dance. Her movements are far from graceful and her flexibility is lacking. But Novak isn’t interested in the dance.

One of his men hands her a drink, and the assassin hiding in the shadows takes note of the small tablet dissolving at the bottom of the glass; it has been tainted.

The families of the target’s victims had told him that this is his _modus operandi_ ; drug the victim, violate her, then leave her to rot or kill her outright. The assassin also learned from his contacts that the drug is illegal even on Illium. It affects them by impairing their vision temporarily, then incapacitates them with a strong paralytic effect. However, it leaves them completely lucid, and that’s how Novak wanted it. The assassin will have no remorse removing him. Silently praying for guidance, he moves as soon as the woman consumes the drink.

It took several minutes, and finally, she is swaying when they led her to the dark alley behind the club. Through a sniper’s scope, he watches, lining up his shots. The sight before him left him astounded; despite being drugged and cornered, she struggles, brandishing a knife at her aggressors with unstable hands. Clumsily, she pounced at one of the men, managing to cut through his jugular in a moment of dumb luck. Disoriented she may be, the dancer flew at her aggressors with blind rage. Perhaps even literally, due to the drug’s aforementioned effects on alien physiology. The shadowy assassin is impressed, though he’s mostly pitiful.

However, she is only one woman, and the drug is starting to take effect. The other four men, Novak included, overpowered her, constraining her to the pavement. They quickly and brutally silenced her with their fists. Greedy hands clawed at her flesh and what little she wore, leaving scratches and bruises. There was little movement now, little enough for a clean shot. The sound of unbuckling and unzipping was made, and the inevitable is almost guaranteed to happen.

_BANG_

A heavy body slumps over the helpless and barely conscious dancer, spraying her with blood that gleamed like ink in the dim lighting of the alley. The hitman leapt over the parapet with grace as the other aggressors scrambled away from the dancer and drew their guns. Firing madly, they didn’t manage to land a single bullet on the unknown killer. Red lights flicker and a silhouette of a man appears before them, and in another flicker, he is gone.

The batarian drops as another gunshot was heard. One human felt a wiry hand on his jaw and he collapses, the sound of bone snapping a sickening crunch. The turian falls to his knees as a powerful kick connects to his knee, and as he tumbles the assailant twists him into a leg lock. Snarls of pain escaped him as a finger stabs his eyes, followed by the sound of his neck snapping and the sound of heavy armor hitting the concrete. Though the job is seemingly done; he needs to ensure of his success. It doesn’t help that the dancer’s presence made everything much more problematic.

After a silent prayer, the hitman’s footsteps are silent as he stepped over the pile of bodies strewn on the cold ground. Novak’s corpse pinned the beaten dancer to the cold floor of the pavement. He hauls Novak’s body out of the way, and sees the dancer lying there, soaked in Novak’s blood, and her own. Cuts and bruises covered the expanse of her body and her features are unidentifiable. There’s almost nothing left of what she wore. The hitman takes off his jacket and drapes it over her bare form before picking her up and cradling her in his sinewy arms. A small cry of pain escapes her lips.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” the dancer pleads, her voice broken, her face bruised and bloody, and her paralyzed limbs had angry marks all over them. Stepping over the other three men, he had to see if the human who the dancer attacked is still alive. He wasn’t. It was a clean cut. “Amonkira must have been guiding you tonight.”

As he laid her down in the back seat of his shuttle, he apologizes. “I am sorry for not making it sooner.”

 


	2. I

Everything stank. The walls, the halls, the people. Omega isn’t a pleasant place; it always smelled of smoke, debauchery and blood. Three bodies marched to the apartments; one tall and wiry, the other buxom and mature, and the last one petite but solid. After ringing the bell of one of the private residences, the door whooshes open, and the small squad is met by a grieving mother.

Thane listens and observes as Samara and Shepard spoke to her. There is pain in her eyes, and they knew it all too well. The pain of loss is something the three of them shared. As the mother began to weep, Shepard places a comforting hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze as she and Samara vowed to avenge her daughter’s death. Contracts the drell assassin took were for people who made the universe a darker place, and this murderer is one of such people; he is glad to assist in this mission as much as Shepard does, bowing his head to the grieving mother solemnly as a show of respect.

Granted permission to investigate the room that belonged to Nef, the victim, the trio worked quickly. Shepard spots one of Nef’s sculptures, and the mother, Diana, tells them that a man from a gallery offered her a huge sum of credits equivalent to four years of her salary. However, she will not part with it, and Shepard understood. Appreciating the sculpture with sorrow, the commander thought to herself that it’s a tragedy that the galaxy won’t see more from her. Despite devoting her entire adulthood to the Alliance, Shepard still loved the arts as much as she did as a young girl (and Mordin learned about that when she gave him a stunned, hundred-mile grin when he sang his scientist salarian song for her).

“Shepard, look.” Thane catches her attention, picking up something between the bed and boxes. “The suspect left a note.” The voice note played. The sender mentions the elcor artist Forta, and Shepard mentally takes note of this information that she can use later. Further investigating the room, she turned on the dead artist’s console that happened to be her diary.

As the vids of Nef’s personal logs played, Thane noticed the sudden change in Shepard’s body language. Her shoulders are tenser than usual, her hand curled into a tight fist. Undoubtedly, she is furious. If he had to take a guess, she’s furious because of the manipulation the victim went through. The human commander also takes note of the name Jaruut. Shepard closes the holo-journal and Samara, whose calm exterior make her unreadable as always, walks over.

“This is Morinth’s work,” Samara comments, prompting Shepard to turn around to face her. “She is attracted to artists and creators. Someone with a spark, slightly isolated from their peers.” Crossing his arms, Thane looks at Shepard, thinking to himself that though he has doubts if Shepard fits the description of an artist or a creator, she definitely has a spark in her. The more Samara described Morinth, the more Thane found himself wary. Not for himself, but for Shepard.

When Samara suggested that Shepard goes in alone and unarmed to lure Morinth, he suspected as much, choosing to remain quiet in spite of deeming the plan too dangerous to himself.

On the way back to the Normandy to make preparations, they pause to look at a view of Omega; always dark, always dirty, always full of desperate people abused by the manipulative and powerful. “People come to places such as this seeking a better life,” Samara said, taking in the view. “And when they get here, they find... this.” Solemnly, she continues to gaze upon the scenery. “Vibrant people forced into destitution on a world filled with criminals. They deserve protection. If I survive your mission, I may return here.” Shepard nods. “I agree. There’s no future for them if we don’t help.”

Thane thinks back to the one time he made a hit in Omega.

“ _Scent of death in the air. Spilled blood gleam like ink. Omega’s lights illuminate it, flickering. I cradle the broken form. Angry marks marred sandy skin. Tears fall from bloodshot eyes, staining a hopeless face. ‘Please, don’t hurt me.’_ ”

The drell snaps out of the flashback, the asari and human looking at him with curious gazes. Samara wears her customary neutral expression, while Shepard is surprised. Dark eyebrows furrowed together; Thane guessed she is skeptical. “Was that a past hit you had here on Omega? I thought finding work here was difficult?” she asks him, hand on her hip. “Yes. But the ones who required me were not from Omega.”

“I see. I assume this person is the target?” Shepard asks, folding her arms together. “No.”

Shepard makes an indiscernible face at his short response, and mentally notes to ask him more about this in another time.

Aboard the Normandy, Shepard went straight to Mordin, saying that she needs to ask him to look up the drug Morinth likes to give her victims. Samara returned to the port observation to meditate, preparing herself mentally for the mission they will undertake, and Thane went straight to the shuttle bay for exercise, taking his waistcoat and vest off as soon as the elevator opens. He needs to keep his blood pumping, as recommended by his doctors, including Doctor Chakwas.

Keeping himself fit wasn’t his only objective; he needed to release his emotions. Knowing Samara will be sending Shepard to a dangerous pursuit unarmed and alone, he is perturbed; furious even, hidden under a mask of calmness and confidence. One punch, two punches, a quick sweep of the leg, and a low elbow… he continued until his heart hammered against his ribcage. As his sharp blows cut the air, he found himself thinking that he should be luring this predator out, not Shepard. Intending to resume his regimen some other time, he slings his discarded clothes over his shoulder and makes his way to the men’s restroom to cool down, scales and temper overheated. Drell evolved to survive the harsh heat of Rakhana, explaining why they need to wear warm leathers in cooler places their bodies are not adapted to, but they still need to cool down when it gets too warm to be comfortable.

Unexpectedly, as the doors open to the third deck, Shepard stands in his way. It took a minute, but as the shirtless drell, with scales still gleaming and a disquieted expression in his face, registers to her view, a surprised expression replaces her neutral one. Still a woman at heart despite her boyish mannerisms while in the field, being a hardened Alliance marine who shared showers with men and women alike, being the woman who stopped Saren, and being the Savior of the Citadel, color spreads to her cheeks, and her expression can only be described as embarrassed.

“Thane.”

“Siha,” Thane replies, suddenly conscious of his half-naked body. He registers Shepard’s eyes making a quick sweep over his form before she coughed, breaking the tension. “I didn’t know drell had stripes,” she comments, entering the elevator. She pressed the close button and faced him, asking “What floor?”

Lightning-fast reflexes kicking in, the drell holds her hand to stop her from pressing any buttons, making her gasp in astonishment. Thane is awestruck on how thin and smooth her skin was and tries his best to hold back rubbing a thumb on it; drell skin is thicker than a human’s, covered in scales and built to protect against Rakhana’s sandstorms and harsh sun, whereas human skin is thin, unarmored, almost fragile, and easily broken with small pricks and cuts. Though he killed some humans during his time under the Compact, he never lingered on their skin, partly due to the adrenaline pumping in him during a kill, and partly due to his professionalism. _The last time I touched a human and lingered was when-_

Train of thought thankfully disrupted before he slipped into solipsism, onyx brown eyes make contact with obsidian pools, their gazes holding. Realizing that his hand had been lingering on her skin far too long, she gives him a faint smirk. The drell wasn’t sure if his heartrate is still rapid due to the workout, or if it’s because of the human woman before him, smiling at him and expressing no displeasure from his touch. “I’m glad I’m not the only one curious about what another species’ skin feels like,” she laughs. Thane blinks in surprise, and his hand flies off of hers.

“Apologies.”

“It’s okay.”

_‘Okay’? Is that an acceptance of my apology, or an invitation to touch her more?_

Inwardly, he reels at his thoughts, concluding that he’s making assumptions and that she’s merely forgiving him. “What floor?” Shepard asks again.

Now that she’s here, he doesn’t want to get off, but he will not admit that. “I was meaning to go out on this floor, but now that you’re here, there is something I wish to say.”

Shepard cocked a brow. “Maybe we can talk in life support, after I freshen up? I need to wash off Omega’s smell off of me. It clings like a needy ex-girlfriend,” she replies. Her reply makes the drell chuckle a little, the double tremor of his voice pronounced as it rumbled from his chest. “Of course, Siha. I will not keep you.”

Her only response is a smile.

Opening the elevator doors, he steps out, and lets a steady stream of cold water hit him in the men’s bathroom, Kepral’s Syndrome be damned, pondering if the heat he felt at the moment is still because of his workout, or if it is because of the siha who gave him back his son and made his sluggish heart beat faster when she smiles at him. At the thought of her, he felt the frills on his cheek engorge and turn a brighter shade of red, and he quickly let the water come in contact with his face to dampen his reaction. He isn’t going to face the justicar, then his siha, in this state.

His footsteps are silent, but nonetheless, Samara detected his presence. “Thane Krios. Join me.”

Sitting down beside the asari justicar, Thane gazes out to the void before them. Twinkling stars are the only things illuminating the room; he found them comforting. “I am curious to know about the person in the memory you blurted out earlier,” Samara says after a few minutes of silence.

_“Cold hand reaches for my face. I step over the corpses with the dancer in my arms. I look at one. Stab wounds clean coming from someone weakened. “Amonkira must have been guiding you tonight.” Her body lies at the back of my shuttle. Broken and small in a peaceful repose. ‘I am sorry for not making it sooner.’”_

“That person is a dancer, who was victimized by a target that I tracked in Omega,” Thane says as he snaps away from the memory. “I nursed her for a night. Left the next morning before she awakened.”

“I see.”

Silence.

“I can sense a disturbance in your aura, Thane. Is there something you wish to discuss?” Samara asks.

“I need to speak to you about Shepard,” he replies. He had stopped looking out the void to look at the justicar.

“I assume this has to do with our hunt for the ardat-yakshi,” Samara calmly responds, eyes still looking distantly into the stars. “You can’t change my mind.”

Thane suspected she will be firm about this, but he tried to convince her nonetheless. “I should lure her out. Risking Shepard is a risk to our mission involving the Collectors. I am a dying man. Losing me to the ardat-yakshi will have lesser effect on the mission than losing Shepard,” Thane explains, hoping that the justicar will find it logical.

“You said this Morinth is drawn to artists, and people slightly isolated from their peers. Killing is an art, and I am a master. I spent my last ten years alone. Use me as bait.”

“A generous offer,” the asari replies, the light in her eyes dying as she stood up. Thane follows suit. The move closer to the window, two figures illuminated by a sea of stars.

“However, you lack the vulnerability Shepard exudes, and Morinth can exploit,” Samara clarifies. “You are desirable in many regards, but Morinth will not find a grounded man appealing.”

Thane basks in a moment of self-reflection. “I see.”

The asari pauses to look at the drell in the eyes. “Rest assured that I will take full responsibility should harm come to her. My code compels me to protect the innocent,” Samara explains. “And Shepard is an innocent. If she dies by Morinth’s hand, I am to blame for sending her to her death.”

It did not comfort Thane in the slightest.

“I will understand your decision to hate me if the woman you love dies,” Samara continues, looking back to the stars as a subtle smile tugged on her lips. “So I shall prepare, and pray to the Goddess for guidance.”

The words shatter him with the force of a bullet. Love Shepard?

…perhaps he does. Thane loves Shepard.

“I hunted the people responsible for my wife’s death,” Thane states firmly, already deep voice dropping an octave lower as he spoke. Samara saw the implications of his words.

“I will pray to Amonkira that your hunt be successful, and mine, if my first prayer has not been heard.”


	3. II

Mordin is analyzing data as always when Shepard breezed into the room.

“Shepard. How can I help?” the salarian asks her, not looking up from his terminal, like he usually does. Shepard found the former STG operative dear for he reminded her of her father at times, back when he was recording his observations on the soil samples back on Mindoir. Of course, she doesn’t approve of Mordin's contributions to the genophage modification, but she’s still fond of him, nonetheless.

“I need information on a drug called Hallex, Mordin.”

“Hallex? Hallucinatory, as name implies. Similar to lysergic acid diethylamide, much more potent though. Can interfere with coordination,” the scientist describes, as he continued to type away. “Any particular reason for interest?” Mordin continues, eyes breaking contact with his monitor momentarily to give the commander a quick glance. “I’m trying attract a sexual predator so I can get up close and entrap her. She uses Hallex to drug her victims,” Shepard explains.

“Interesting choice. Hallex not paralytic nor sedative. Must be for hedonistic purposes.”

The word ‘paralytic’ made Shepard reel slightly and doesn’t quite know why.

“I might have to take it if she offers me some to avoid getting my cover blown,” she continues, making Mordin drop whatever he is doing and move closer to her.

“Problematic. Recommend caution.” Mordin takes a sharp inhale. “Accomplice necessary. Going in alone risky. May cause biotics to go unstable. Know what you are capable of, but drug might affect decision making.”

“I understand, Mordin. Samara will be watching me.”

“Good! Can never be too careful. Anything else?”

Shepard offers a good-natured smile. “Nothing else. Thanks, Mordin. I’ll let you work.”

Upon thanking him and exiting the tech lab, she heard her stomach rumble. Now is a good time to go down the elevator and have a quick lunch at the mess.

Thanks to the supplies she bought from the Citadel, the food Mess Sergeant Gardner is serving had gotten significantly better. The menu for today is roast meat with a side of mashed potatoes and vegetables of assorted colors. Shepard isn’t sure of where the meat and vegetables came from, but nonetheless they were delicious and she decided against asking. Conversing with some of the crew, including Garrus who took a break from his calibrations to eat, the commander allowed herself to loosen up a bit, shaking off any distractions she might have before she entraps Morinth.

Marching to the elevator, she plans to proceed to her cabin to rest and get dressed for the occasion. Upon opening, however, she didn’t expect Thane’s lean, sinewy muscles greeting her. Suddenly her throat felt dry. _God, did he always shine like this?_ The scent of his musk reaches her nose, subtle yet penetrating, with dulcet hints that made her cheeks flush with crimson. She had always found Thane attractive, with the way he carries himself with cool confidence, the way he straightens his collar, the way his leathers embraced his body like a second skin in all the right places…

After engaging in little small talk with the drell while he’s half-naked, her hand being held by his, and staring into his deep, dark obsidian eyes, she definitely needs a cold shower. Shepard still feels his hand on hers, the texture of smooth scales warm against hers, significantly distracting her as she thought of him running his hands all over her skin as she explored his. She turns down the temperature of the waters lower in an attempt to remove her perverted thoughts. A voice in the back of her head berates at her. _You’re being unprofessional, Shepard._

But as much as she wanted to deny it, the attraction is multifaceted, not exclusive to physical want. Religion is something she avoids, but she respects his dedication for his, even asking about his deities. His knowledge of human works took her by surprise, prompting her to invite him to her little “club” with Kasumi when he made a very amusing reference to _The Princess Bride_ during the encounter with the volus who claimed to be a biotic god. He barely spoke, but when he does, his words are mostly meaningful and something to ponder on. Though he may have been absent throughout Kolyat’s life, he deeply cares for him, and sees him as a blessing from his goddess Arashu, something that made him endearing in Shepard’s eyes.

Most of all, what drew Shepard the most to him is his ability to appear stoic and grounded to the public eye, yet so vulnerable when there’s only the two of them in the room, a gesture of trust that neither of them took lightly.

Beginning to shiver under the icy jets of water, she turns off the shower, and blotted her skin dry with a fresh towel. Dressing herself in the faux leather dress Kasumi got for her when they retrieved Keiji’s graybox in Bekenstein, she looks at herself briefly in the bathroom mirror. She dusted powder over her face and applied more makeup than usual; normally, she just puts on her favorite red eyeshadow then a smear of eyeliner to conceal her darkening eyelids brought by sleepless nights, and she was good to go. Makeup had little use to her. They’d smear and rub off in the middle of an adrenaline-filled gunfight, but if she’s going to die, she might as well feel confident before death.

She decides that she’ll honor her word and talk to Thane before she continues with Samara.

His back faced the door as usual, but the moment Shepard walks in, he looks over his shoulder. It is something he never did before. “Siha. You came.” She sits down to the seat adjacent to him. “I always have time for you Thane.” Frills engorging, Thane gives her a kind smile. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she tells him, color in her cheeks.

Thane recalls the first time he saw Shepard in this dress. Heading to the mess hall, the door to the starboard observation whooshed open and caught his attention, and she steps out with Kasumi. Humans have hair, something mammals have and his species lack, and her neck-length locks had been cut shorter, closer to her scalp, further accentuating her high cheekbones and strong jaw. The fabric snugly fit her body and Thane found himself staring; he hasn’t felt this desire since Irikah. Respectfully, he looks away and acknowledges her, and she greeted him with a smile that can be described as bashful. As she walked away with Kasumi, he heard the thief giggle.

After his brief retrospection, he replies to the woman before him. “And I you,” he said. Thane decided that he will tell her tonight, in case he will never get the chance to again. “Will you hear my confession, siha?”

“Last time we talked like this, you said you’d explain what ‘siha’ means.”

“I need to explain myself to you first,” Thane replies, clasping his hands together. “When I married Irikah, the hanar let me leave their service to raise a family. But I had no other skills, so I freelanced. When Irikah was killed, I pursued those responsible. Once I eliminated them, I had no goal. I accepted the Dantius commission because I didn't know what else to do.”

The siha before him gives him a concerned look. “Not the healthiest attitude to take on a mission,” she comments, leaning closer to him. “You're right, it's not. Looking back now, it's clear I'd resigned myself to death,” Thane responds, finding the words to say. ”I would've fulfilled my contract. If Nassana's guards caught me afterwards, it would have been a good death. But someone else was pushing to reach the target. Forcing me to move faster. Challenging me. I had to reach her first.”

Shepard furrows her brow, concerned further. “I had no idea you planned to die in there,” she sincerely replies. “It wasn't a plan. My body had accepted its death. My mind had been dead a long time,” Thane admits, his gaze not leaving Shepard. “But I met another siha,” he confesses, oxytocin rushing in his bloodstream. “Few are privileged to meet even one.”

“You still haven’t told me what a siha is.”

“One of the warrior-angels of the goddess Arashu,” Thane said, making Shepard’s heartbeat quicken as she realized that all this time, he had been calling her an angel. “Fierce in wrath. A tenacious protector. I confess, I’ve come to care for you. Perhaps I’m being foolish,” he continues, moving his hands closer to where hers was. “We are very different.”

That Shepard can agree with, but it never stopped her from admiring him.

“I’m not sure if we know each other well enough to call it love,” she admits. A soft hand clasps over Thane’s calloused ones, making his heart flutter against his chest. “But I feel something for you too. Something more than friendship.” The black pools of Thane’s eyes glimmered in the soft light at Shepard’s admission. “I’ve never felt affection for another species. I’m not sure what to do now,” the drell confesses, his siha gripping his hands a little tighter.

“We’ll just have to figure it out,” Shepard replies, smile endearing and honest. It prompts his lips to tug to a smile as well. “I look forward to the memories.”

Fingers laced together, they linger. Shepard’s skin is cooler than a drell’s; he found it comforting. This is a memory Thane will treasure until the day his soul departs from his body. He looks deeply into her onyx brown eyes, normally they burned with fervent rage and righteous fury only a siha possesses, now they are full of tenderness and affection. Shepard is looking in his eyes as well, seeing a reflection of herself in the gentle, obsidian pools of his eyes. Upon closer inspection, she registers his irises as deep green.

One hand leaves Shepard’s grasp, and touches her cheek lovingly. Dark strands of short hair brushed against his knuckle; hair is something that intrigued Thane about humans. Asari, turians, his species, and so many others have very little options regarding the shape of their heads, while humans can cut the hair on their head without injury, and they even grow back. He strokes her hair gently, playing with it with care, making her giggle.

Shepard rarely laughs in public, much less giggle, and so hearing her voice tinkling makes him feel warm and soft in the chest. Thane loves seeing his siha happy, and he wants her to remain that way, even long after he’s gone. The sudden contemplation of his death prompted him to return his hand to hers and clasp them tightly, silently wondering if their fingers would fit perfectly if his fingers were unfused. A simple, yet unattainable pleasure.

“I should go,” Shepard finally says after a few minutes of holding hands, not wanting to break the contact, but she must. “Samara needs me to hunt Morinth.”

“Speaking of Morinth,” Thane mentions as she stood up from her seat. “Siha, please be careful. This predator Samara described… she will have no mercy,” he continues. “I can’t bear the thought of losing people I have come to care for again. Especially you.”

Thane freezes when Shepard leans over and gave him a chaste kiss on his forehead, right exactly on the pentagon marking on his forehead that all drell possessed. His siha’s kiss spoke to his soul with a gentle promise of love. “I will. I have someone to go home to now.”

As Shepard left the room, the heavy sigh he was holding back since he brought up the mission involving the ardat-yakshi escaped his lips. Clasping his hands together, he closes his eyes, bows his head, and prays for his siha.

“Arashu, merciful mother, I pray for protection. Arashu, whose embrace encompasses all, I beg not for my protection, but for one of your angels. And should she face inevitable danger in her path, grant me the power to protect her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've noticed, some of the dialogue in this chapter borrows from Thane's confession scene. It's too perfect to take liberties with, so I included it almost word-for-word.
> 
> Also, Thane's prayer in the end is based on the prayer he offers to Amonkira, and some elements borrowed from the hospital scene prayer in ME3. I'm not entirely sure how drell prayers work.


	4. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic depictions of non-consensual scenes and manipulation. Proceed with caution.

Lights the color of blood illuminate the room. Colorful strobe lights flashing all over the room strained unaccustomed eyes. Dark, pulsing rhythms throbbed through writhing, sweaty bodies. Sex, drugs and alcohol wafted in the stale air. Unsurprising, this _is_ still Omega. Creeping along the corridors, concealed in the shrouded darkness of the place, Thane is restless. Anxiously watching, he couldn’t sit down and wait for the outcome of Shepard and Samara’s hunt, and he also couldn’t interfere out of respect for the justicar and her wishes. Despite knowing what Shepard is capable of, being humanity’s first Spectre and the woman who stopped Saren Arterius, Thane prepared himself to put his own life at risk for this human. Bringing him closer to Kolyat, having a purpose to drive him forward, and making his sleeping soul come to life again are her doings. Losing Irikah, to him, is a result of his carelessness, and he will not commit the same mistake with the second siha the goddess Arashu had placed in his path.

Striding towards the door to the main area, Shepard stopped abruptly when Samara waves her over from her hiding place. The two women are reviewing what to do to attract Morinth’s attention as the drell assassin stealthily watched them from the darkest corner with the best view. Samara’s mention of the commander’s life being in great peril did not help his disquieted mind at all. “And Shepard,” Samara says before the commander turns to leave. “Thank you. I do not share this burden easily, and you are the only soul I can imagine sharing it with.” Nodding, the commander takes a deep breath. Giving Samara one last look for reassurance, the human Spectre makes an entrance. Having participated in school plays during her younger days in Mindoir, she had decent knowledge of acting, of playing the part. Tonight, she plays the part of prey.

Now, she must attract the predator’s attention.

The justicar told Shepard that Morinth is attracted to strength, directness, and vigor. Courage or suicidal bravery could attract the ardat-yakshi as well, and the latter is something Shepard wasn’t lacking in, punching the turian harassing the asari dancer, and throwing him a few feet across. To her, there is something familiar about the situation, but she couldn’t pinpoint why, and something was screaming at her at the back of her mind to ignore it. Choosing to move on for the sake of the task at hand, she leaves as soon as the dancer gives her thanks, and proceeds to look for more ways to catch Morinth’s attention. Thane was impressed by her show of skill for hand-to-hand combat. He thought of telling her later, but that would give away the fact that she had been watching that night. Perhaps he’ll just use the context of her punching a krogan for that compliment instead.

Using her charms, she catwalks over to an asari and joins her dance. Despite her charming disposition, Shepard is still a bad dancer. Thane silently thought to himself that the jokes Garrus and Tali’Zorah made about her dancing had some shred of truth to them. Not a shred of rhythm nor grace, the commander’s dance can only be described as rigid. Thane remembers the dancer he saved fifteen years ago. Unfortunate enough that she couldn’t dance, the dancer had to entertain vile guests as well. Stopping his retrospection before he lapsed into solipsism, he returns his attentions to his siha. Finally, she had drawn Morinth’s attention after convincing the bartender to serve a round of drinks on the house.

With an alluring smile on her lips, as Morinth conversed with Shepard, she produces a pill bottle from one of her pockets. Thane assumes that is the drug Hallex. The ardat-yakshi offers one to Shepard, which she accepts in a casual manner. Internally, however, Shepard is mortified. There’s a voice inside her head telling her not to; refusing drugs from a sexual predator who is known to kill her victims during sex is logical, but she always had an irrational fear of illegal drug use and Shepard tries to remember why. However, in no position to refuse, she takes it.

Perfect memory wanders back to the dancer he once saved.

“’ _Here baby, a treat.’ Unfortunate and uncomfortable, she takes the drink in hand. Gulps it to the last drop. I move as soon as she drops the glass. I still see them. She dances, unfashionable, unabashed. Thin legs begin to shake as her senses slowly betray her._ ”

Blinking out of solipsism, and thanking that the throbbing music drowned out his voice enough for him to remain undetected, Thane immediately goes back to watching Shepard and the ardat-yakshi. Blue hands caressed her cheek as Shepard continues to reel her in, making the drell’s chest constrict. Was it jealousy? Protectiveness? Terror? What he felt is irrelevant; a serial killer is touching the woman he loves and his self-control is wearing thin, itching to drop from the vents and crush the asari’s throat with a punch, twist her arm until it breaks, give her a hip throw, grab her chin and scalp, and twist her neck. Better judgement guiding him, however, he remains unseen, leaving the opportunity to kill her to Samara.

Thane couldn’t hear their conversation from his position, but he definitely saw Shepard take the Hallex, and he can see them leaving the booth they sat in, with Shepard’s legs slightly swaying. The drug is starting to take effect. The similarity is almost uncanny; Shepard once told him that the humans have an expression called _déjà vu_ , which meant “already seen”. Thane saw this happen to the dancer from The Second Circle before, and he knows that didn’t go well for her. He feared for the worst as he watched Samara follow the two bodies to the richer apartments in Omega.

So far, Thane managed to avert anyone’s attention as he stalked, leaping from parapets and crawling in more vents to boost his concealment. As Shepard stumbled into Morinth’s apartment, she can feel herself getting lost. Not in a literal sense, but her mind is swimming, her thoughts scrambled and incoherent. In her drugged state, she can see sound and taste colors. Amplified by the Hallex’s effect on her body, as Morinth looks at her with her darkened eyes, she found herself completely undone.

Swimming in the dangerous expanse of black in her eyes, Shepard drowns in it, tasting it as a cloying, thick flavor that burned her throat and lungs. A cool hand slithers under the hem of her dress, and her mind screams at her to twist it until it’s broken, but soon enough, the screams were silenced by Morinth’s hypnotic orbs. She wanted to belong to her. She wanted Morinth to consume her very being. She wants her. She’d kill for her. She’d do anything she wants.

The touches she is receiving from the blue hand are far from intimate. They are forceful, hungry. Thin fingers ghosts over the hem of her undergarments before forcefully shoving them down, then mashes the sensitive bundle of nerves that made a blaze sweep across her body. Wide lips graze her cheek, moving to nip her earlobes as she felt herself melt against her touch. But there is someone calling out to her. That person’s fingers weren’t smooth, and lips not wide. Shepard scans the face of the person before her, and her brows furrow. No, something isn’t right. There is someone she desires, but it isn’t Morinth. That person’s skin wasn’t smooth and blue; it was textured with scales, and gleams like emeralds against the light.

As Morinth attempts to seal their lips in a kiss, Shepard furrows her brow again and shoves her away gently, hands palming her full breast. The person she wanted didn’t have breasts; hell, that person isn’t even a woman. He had black pools for eyes as well, but wider, kinder, gentler. Thinking back, she realizes that when she swims in the tender black pools of this person’s eyes, they didn’t burn her like how Morinth’s does; they took her gently adrift, the taste of them subtly dulcet. The cold pools she’s drowning in right now wanted to take her, restrain her, and violate her; the obsidian pools she loved embraced her every being, worshipped her as a goddess, and promised her of intimate touches. A name emerges in her head.

Thane.

She wanted Thane.

Shepard moans his name, imagining his lush lips pressing against hers, and his calloused hands touching her with tenderness that this blue hand lacks. Morinth’s expression sours at the mention of another person’s name. She hushed Shepard, grabbing her jaw stiffly with cold blue hands, and brushing a strand of her black hair away from her face. “I can make you forget all about him.” No, the hand she knows didn’t grab her painfully by the jaw, rather, it cupped her cheek with profound admiration, warm against her skin, and she does not want to forget that, nor trade it for the memory of this cold, blue hand making her hurt.

“I don’t want to forget.”

“You do, because you love me. You _want_ me,” Morinth emphasizes, her fingers clawing at Shepard’s jaw. Forcefully, she crushes her dark-painted lips over the human woman, and growing aware of the situation, Shepard grimaces in disgust and retches, to the surprised anger of the asari, her pride hurt by this human woman’s lack of interest. However, she isn’t simply not interested; this human is _disgusted_ with her. Morinth realizes this and throws her against the floor, pulling her dress from her shoulders and bringing it to her waist, determined to dominate her and make her desire her. Whoever it was in this human’s head, Morinth will burn the memory of him away. Descending upon her, Morinth constrains Shepard’s wrists, pinning them against the floor as she roughly bit at her neck, drawing blood and a cry bubbling from her chest. Painted lips left stains on the sandy skin of her chest. “You _love_ me.”

No, Shepard doesn’t love this blue-faced temptress that has been trying to drown her.

“I love Thane.”

The door rushes open and Samara rushes in to Shepard’s rescue.

The justicar shouts her daughter’s name, drawing her attention away from Shepard, and flings her to the windows with a biotic throw, shattering the glass on impact. As mother and daughter struggled and threw words full of spite at each other, Shepard is disoriented on the floor while Thane is rushing to the apartment as he heard the crashes from floors above. Blinking repeatedly and clutching her head to get some sense of clarity, Shepard comes back to her senses, now aware of her semi-exposed body, the lip marks on her breasts and the deadlock before her eyes.

“I’m as strong as she is - let me join you!” Morinth exclaims.

“I am already sworn to help you, Shepard. Let us finish this.”

Even in her drugged, disoriented state, it is not a difficult decision for Shepard. Grabbing the arm of the ardat-yakshi, she gives her a deathly glare. “End of the line, Morinth.”

“And they call me a monster,” was the only reply the soon-to-be-dead asari can muster. Samara takes this opportunity to throw her forward. “You _are_ a monster,” Shepard whispers as she slowly backed away from her.

Samara walks to Morinth who was backing away desperately, crawling through the shattered glass. “Find peace in the embrace of the Goddess.”

Shepard looks away as Samara crushed her own daughter’s skull with a biotic punch.

“I am ready to leave this place and get on with my life,” the justicar says as she stood up from crouching over Morinth. “Are you ready to go as well?”

Quickly covering herself, Shepard tried her best to appear unfazed, the Hallex still making her head swim, and the experience with Morinth revolting her to no bounds. Even her own skin felt disgusting and all she wants at the moment is to rid herself of Morinth’s scent, now mixed with the asari’s blood. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

It is hard to detect to the untrained ear, but there is a pang of pain in Samara’s voice. “Shepard. What do you think will I say? What can I say? I just killed the bravest and smartest of my daughters. There are not words. I will try another time.” The justicar bows her head in solemn anguish.

“For now, show mercy on a broken old warrior and let us leave.”

Shepard didn’t respond. She simply crashes to the ground.

“Shepard!”

Everything is spinning. Her heart raced and her lungs were giving out. As the world around her came crashing, she hears the door whoosh open once more. The black pools for eyes that let her drift gently appears before her.

Shepard’s body felt heavy as sinewy arms held her, and her feet didn’t touch the ground as she felt herself drifting away from this place. Desperately, her cold hand reaches for a face contorted with silent fury.

Unfamiliar memories began to resurface as the world around her spun.


	5. IV

_A startled yell rumbled out of her lungs as a gunshot rang and the man on top of her slumped forward, warm fluid spraying all over her face. **Blood?** She didn’t have time to think as she heard another gunshot, followed by the crackle of bone and the sound of bodies slamming against the floor with a sickening thud. Tears blinding her, coupled with the drug impairing her vision, she registers nothing but a dark, humanoid silhouette, rays of red lights shrouding it ominously._

**_Are these the Valkyries dad told me about?_ **

_Gasps of terror choked out of her throat when the figure took a step towards her. They turned into frightened sobs when the footsteps didn’t stop, the stranger closing the distance between them. Contemplating suicides in the past, the dancer suddenly didn’t want to die, at least, not when her body is writhing in pain and her head clouded by a drug._

_Warm fabric covers her cold, exposed body. A musk perfumed it, alien, but not unpleasant; it is almost spicy, with a hint of mellow sweetness. It brought her comfort and stirred her curiosity, distracting her mind from the pain her body felt. **What the hell are you?** Flinching as lean arms took her fragile form, salty tears starts to stream from her bloodshot eyes once more._

_“Please, don’t hurt me,” she begs, struggling to say the words as she trembles in the stranger’s hold. Eyes almost blinded, she tries to discern its face, but fails. In compensation, her small hand reaches for it, landing on its cheek. She continued to probe and gasps; this definitely wasn’t human, with its scales gliding under her touch. However, she is certain that this person is masculine. Warm against her cold fingers, tranquil wrath twisted his features._

_“Amonkira must have been guiding you tonight.”_

**_Who?_ **

_But she didn’t have the energy or capacity to think more; the drug and her injuries are preventing her from forming coherent thoughts, and more sentences. She can feel her body adrift the sinewy arms that carried her, then put down on a soft surface, arms folded into a peaceful manner, and the fabric draped over her tucked around her broken form to keep her warm._

_“I am not sorry for making it sooner.”_

_Before drifting into unconsciousness, her last thoughts were of the angel of death who carried her to her final rest._

* * *

 

Crisscrossing wounds brought by nails covers the commander’s skin, some from Morinth, some inflicted by herself in a fit of traumatized terror. The Hallex is in full effect, and it’s making her see and feel things that are not there. Sinewy arms held hers in place, muscles denser than hers, preventing her from hurting herself any further and grounding her back to reality. Tired feet that dragged across battlefields are swept from the ground once more. Mellow sweetness and spice that emanated from the skin of who bears her weakened body brought some sense of familiarity that made her cling to the exposed, scaled chest that her head rested against.

Trying to placate the drell, Samara steps closer and places a hand on his shoulder, which he coldly shrugged. Indignation setting in, he gives the asari justicar a glower, spurred by the shallow, anguished breathing of the human woman who he came to love. In their predicament, Samara’s claim of his affection for Shepard becomes closer to the truth.

“I hope you see the gravity of your actions, justicar.”

With astonishing speed, Thane stormed out of the ardat-yakshi’s apartment with Shepard in his arms, clutching her tightly and not minding the burning in his lungs. Samara catches up, until they reached the elevator where Thane almost smashes the controls with a kick, a medley of contrition and ire beginning to plague his heart. He softens when Shepard’s freezing hand brushes against his face. Mustering all the courage he can, he looks at her. Her black leather dress askew and drawn over her legs, it was more than enough evidence of the ardat-yakshi’s work, but he saw more that made his heart constrict with pure anger. Lipstick stains and bites are spattered on her chest. Scratches on her face are weeping blood, and her onyx eyes are weeping as well, pupils dilated and sclera bloodshot.

At that moment, he didn’t see the Hero of Elysium, or the first human Spectre, or the Savior of the Citadel.

Thane sees the dancer.

* * *

 

Sky the color of rust and brown smoke, the streets of Gozu District were littered with its residents and their refuse. Thane glances over his shoulder, checking on the dancer as he drove his shuttle through the streets of district, and relief replaces his disquieted disposition as he saw the rise and fall of the dancer’s chest. Safe house (originally a tenement repurposed as such in his temporary stay) in sight, he pulls over a secluded spot, away from the foot traffic of the souls of Omega. Discreetly, he carries her inside, the reinforced security lock turning red as the door whooshed shut. Once inside, he sets the human dancer on the single bed. It is a small safe house, and it can barely be considered as such, being more similar to a cramped apartment with minimal decoration and furnishings: whoever comes in is greeted by an electric burner for cooking meals and a small refrigerator beside a single counter in the makeshift kitchen, a toilet, a shower stall and sink in a small bathroom, and strongboxes underneath a bed that stored his weapons at the far side of the room.

Confined and restricted, the tenement struggles hold two people inside, but it’s still far better than the living conditions of most of the inhabitants of Gozu District. Thane isn’t intending to stay in Omega for long anyway, and as a matter of fact, had it not for his contacts informing him that Novak happens to be in Omega, he wouldn’t have stayed in Omega for almost two months; a hitman would go hungry, for the locals does the killings themselves, something he learned the hard way when he came to find work. The people who _does_ require his services are people he never wants to work with. Novak was one of such people. An assassin is a weapon wielded by the person who pays for his service, and being a weapon for the scum of the galaxy is something he doesn’t intend to be. Thugs and mercenaries are such people.

As soon as the human dancer is safe on his bed, he fled to the bathroom to rummage for medi-gel, and silently thanked Arashu when he found his supply in one of the cabinets. Quiet footsteps quickened as he went back to the dancer, he leans over her broken form, and manually applies the medication over her cuts, watching her wounds close slowly as the gel clamps her skin together. One of the few other gifts Thane had aside from his penchant for assassinations is keeping himself alive, and now he prays to Arashu that this skill can keep the dancer alive as well, folding his hands together.

“Arashu, benevolent mother, I beseech you. By your grace, I ask for this innocent soul’s protection. Guide me in bringing her back from the brink of the deep. Aid me, merciful goddess, in pulling her back to the shores of the living.”

A mumble bubbles from the dancer’s lips.

“You’re still awake,” Thane simply says, standing up from kneeling over the dancer and moving to the makeshift kitchen to get her a glass of water. “Usually a person taking such punishment would be unconscious by now. A drugged person, more so.”

Condensation around the cool glass touched the dancer’s lips and she struggled to take a sip, her face still numb and vision still blurred from Novak’s drug. She squints at the figure, the room’s low, reddish light not doing her any favors. Warm fingers glide over her eyes, gently closing them for her. “Sleep. I will watch over you.”

“Not yet,” the dancer croaks out, eyes gently fluttering open. “I need answers, please.”

“I will answer them as soon as you are rested,” Thane replies. Her face is still swelling and her features are still unrecognizable, but Thane could clearly see the furrowing of her brow. Leaning against the bathroom door across the single bed, Thane merely observes her.

 “How will I know you won’t leave me? Please, just a few answers. I’m scared.”

Thane silently reconsiders.

“Very well. What do you wish to know?”

“Why save a worthless dancer from the streets of Omega?” the dancer asks, curious and honest.

Unsure how to respond, Thane stayed in his spot, examining his conscience. As an assassin, his flesh and reflexes are honed to hurt and kill, innocent or otherwise as long as he is paid (even though he preferred performing hits on men like Novak), and it wasn’t in his training to protect someone unless required for the job, but it was in his nature, hence why the innocent human girl is with him right now. _Perhaps I’m trying to be like Irikah, or saving this human will quench my need to atone for the evils I had done. But is it worth telling?_

“Are you even still there? I still can’t see, goddammit. I’m scared enough already,” the dancer said, lips trembling and the tears in her eyes threatening to spill again. She feels the wind around her shift and the scaled hand wipes the tear off of her blood-smeared cheek.

Small hands, now a lot less cold than it was minutes ago, grasp at the bedsheets until one of them touches Thane’s.

“Apologies. I am unprepared to answer your question. Kindness is rare in worlds such as this, so I understand your suspicion.”

Both the drell and the human are silent for a long time. Thane was lost in thought when the dancer groaned and tried to stand from her bed. Pressing a firm hand on her abdomen, he pushes her down, his wiry strength no match to her numb muscles. “Sleep.”

Despite all of it, the dancer still pushed forward. “No,” she snaps, trying to claw his hand off of her. “I want to get up.”

“I can see why you survived,” Thane said, removing his hand and letting her rise unsteadily to a sitting position, limbs straining and shaking. Out of respect, Thane repositioned his jacket so it will continue to cover her for modesty. “You are stubborn. Persistent. You have a strong spirit,” Thane continues, steadying her as she tried to stand up.

“I didn’t go through all that shit in my life just to be held back by a coward’s drug,” she said. “Thanks, by the way.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Thane replies, placing one of her arms over his shoulder, and awkwardly so due to the differences of their heights. “What do you need?” he asks.

“I need a shower,” the dancer replies. Her words hitching in her throat, she pauses to take a breath. “I can still feel their hands on me. Disgusted with myself.”

Giving her a sympathetic look, Thane obliges, opening the door to the small bathroom and pulling her inside. “Thanks again,” the dancer says, one hand palming the walls, the other gripping Thane’s vest. “I can take it from here.”

Raising a brow ridge, Thane refuses to let go. “Novak used a paralytic, vision-impairing drug. You might hurt yourself,” he argues, propping her against the wall to keep her steady. “Damn. That explains why I feel like ass,” the dancer replies, managing to chortle through the physical pain and psychological trauma. “My limbs feel heavy and I can’t see clearly, but I can move and I’m not blind. I’ll manage,” she argues back, rubbing her eyes as she tried to discern the features of the person before her. Though her eyesight still ailing, she confirmed that this person definitely isn’t human. The stranger is nothing like she’s ever encountered before, he piqued her curiosity, and she silently thought to herself that it’s a shame that she couldn’t see his face. She wanted to remember him.

“Just trust me on this. I don’t mind sitting on the floor if my body can’t stay up as long as I get to rinse off,” the dancer said, and Thane lets go of her, then steps out of the room. The dancer allowed the jacket to fall to the floor, and Thane looks away from her as he picks his jacket up. Her body slides down against the wall and she sits down, reaching for the shower handle and letting the warm water wash away the blood from her skin; Thane sees it as an inky, black color. The dancer looks up and sees his silhouette against the door, prompting her to wrap herself in a fetal position.

“A little privacy please?” she requests. “Apologies. Are you certain you will be fine without me guiding you?” Thane asks, closing the door. “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stay within earshot if you need anything,” Thane said.

Thane leans against the door, listening to the stream of water from the other room. Activating his omnitool, he reads his contacts’ notes on the drug, letting out a soft hum as he reached the section that describes how long it is effective on humans. _Two hours passed since she consumed it and she shouldn’t even be moving for the next six hours. Remarkable._ Light from the omnitool dying as he powered it down, he glances to the door behind him when a small rasp came from the other side.

“Do you need anything?” he asks her.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” the dancer said, leaning herself against the wall and the door. Warm jets of water continued to stream down her face. “Why save me?”

“The man who sought to victimize you was my target. You are an innocent, and you needed protection,” he responds coolly. “Oh. Are you some kind of vigilante or hitman? I promise I won’t go anywhere if you are, I can barely hold up my own weight,” the dancer said, chuckling in the end. Thane raised a brow ridge at her words. “You’re beaten, and assaulted, and yet you laugh,” Thane says, confused.

“It’s a coping mechanism, buddy. Not the first time I used humor to ease the pain.”

“I see.”

“So, what are you?” the dancer asks again, tone more insistent.

“I cannot say.”

A groan reverberated from within the bathroom. “I’ll just call you a vaguely humanoid angel of death then,” she grumbles. In his amusement, a puff of air escapes Thane’s lips. “That’s not inaccurate, but I’m far from the description of an angel.”

“You are starting to scare me.”

“When you’re alone and vulnerable with a stranger, fear is logical.”

Laughter rang from inside the bathroom. “If this wasn't real life and we're in an old, cliché thriller-action vid from Earth, I'm guessing you're a hitman,” the dancer said. Murky waters continued to flow to the drain, grime from the dancer’s hair and more caked-up blood muddling the tile. “A hitman with a heart, killing evil men, then discovering that they have a hostage, a child or a female hostage in particular. Bonus points if both. Ugh. God, this situation is a typical plot of a hitman vid and I hate it.”

“From what you’re telling me, it seems humans tend to romanticize this profession in the works of fiction they create,” Thane comments, the edge of his mouth tugging. Whether it is a grimace or a ghost of a smirk, another soul couldn’t tell.

“And from what I can piece together so far, I’m guessing that you _are_ a hitman, and that you aren't human,” the dancer triumphantly exclaims, leaning her head against the door with a small thud. There was no denying that Thane chuckled.

“Well played, Miss…?”

“Now hang on, I’m still the one asking questions. Why would I give you my name if I’m not even sure what you’re planning to do to me? You must have an angle in this. Is this about sex? I look like shit, so that can’t be it. Money? I don’t have any credits to pay-”

“I understand your caution,” Thane interrupts as he folded his arms together. “Be assured that helping you is a conscious choice that I have done out of pity for an innocent. Nothing more.”

“Altruism? In _Omega_? Am I alive?” the dancer asks rhetorically, but Thane had a response.

“You’re here and not in the sea.”

“Pardon?” she asks once more, not understanding his choice of words. “My mistake. I did not consider that humans have their own idea of an afterlife,” Thane corrects himself.

“I don’t believe in an afterlife. Surprise.” the dancer replies, reaching for the soap on the rack placed over the closed toilet. “People usually think I’m a freak when I say that, so I understand if you do.”

“Not at all. I find it intriguing.”

Bar the flowing water, the tenement is silent.

“There must be something I can call you,” Thane breaks the silence. “Can I just use any name?” the human on the other side of the door responds.

“You may,” Thane replies, letting his arms fall from his chest to his sides. There is silence again. Thane assumes that she is thinking.

“Kara. Call me Kara.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very taxing chapter to write, mostly due to the dancer's scenes with Thane during the flashback. I did my best to write with sensitivity during the scene where she copes with the physical and mental trauma with humor and laughter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hypnotic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572512) by [Siha_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siha_Shepard/pseuds/Siha_Shepard)




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